Fallen Star, Kept in Darkness
by StarSpray
Summary: (Better to Have Loved) Elwing cannot stand the sight of the Silmaril


She wasn't certain when she had begun to hate it. As a small child the Silmaril had filled her with wonder, and one of her earliest, clearest memories was an image of Lúthien with the Nauglamír clasped around her slender neck, radiant in bright summer sunshine with her hair like shadows around her shoulders, and her eyes alight with the reflected gleam of the Silmaril, and the other jewels in the necklace catching its light so it seemed they burned with an inner fire of their own. And later Dior had worn it and filled Menegroth with its glory.

But now Elwing could not stand the sight of the Jewel. She had stared at it every day, wrapped in the same soft leather that had borne it from Tol Galen to Doriath upon the deaths of her grandparents. Her father had bound it again and thrust it deep into the pack she carried on her back as the weary remnant of the Iathrim made their way slowly south, following the River Sirion. Others had carried food or extra clothes, or firewood, or weapons on their backs. Things to help them survive the bitter, wet Beleriand winter. She had carried the Silmaril for which her parents and brothers were slain, and for which the fountains of Menegroth flowed with red, for which the tapestries of Melian had been set afire, and for which they had been cast from their home by the flame-eyed Kinslayers.

She was not a child anymore. Now she was a young woman, growing far more swiftly than the other children in Sirion, except Eärendil. In all of Beleriand they were the only Halfelven, and so close in age that it made sense, at least to their guardians, that they should become friends (and perhaps more, if Elwing was reading the looks on Galadriel and Idril's faces correctly – but she wasn't sure what she thought about that).

Eärendil laughed – often and loudly, like his father Tuor. It reminded her a little bit of her father, who surprised many in Doriath when he laughed, not nightingale-light like Lúthien whom he resembled, but as deeply and ardently as Beren. She had gone so long without it that their joy seemed foreign to Elwing, who could not remember when she had last laughed, let alone smiled – a real smile, not the stiff, polite ones that never reached her eyes that she so often had to put on for others (even Eärendil).

There would be much of that this evening. There was to be a celebration for her begetting day. Galadriel was insisting on it. "You might have some fun in spite of yourself," she had said that morning while picking out a gown for Elwing to wear (pale blue, of soft, light cloth brought from Círdan in Balar). "And even if you don't, it is never wrong to give your people something to celebrate." And Elwing could not argue with that. By rights she was their queen – at least of the remnant of Doriath, though she refused to take a title higher than Lady, and Lord Celeborn still shouldered most of that role, working with Lady Idril who led the Gondolindrim. "And perhaps you can wear the Nauglamír."

Elwing shook her head as Galadriel left. She pulled out the leather-wrapped necklace and set it on her bed. Then she went to the window, and stood gazing out at the sea. The waves crashed against the base of the cliff over which the house she shared with Celeborn and Galadriel stood. To the left it sloped down to a path that led to the beach, far enough away that only when the wind was good, like this afternoon, did she hear the activity there – recognizing the voices of Tuor and Eärendil. No doubt they would appear late to the festivities, smelling of salt and still damp from the spray.

Then she pulled the shutters tight, and latched them, plunging her room into shadow.

Elwing always thought, whenever she took out the Silmaril (which wasn't often) that something would be different, that she would, somehow, magically, feel something other than anger and bitter resentment.

Now was no different. She carefully pulled the leather away, and the Silmaril's light illuminated the room, gleaming like a star come to earth, dazzling her with its brightness. The gems of the Nauglamír – sapphires, rubies, emeralds, opals, and diamonds, and others Elwing couldn't name – shimmered with reflected light. It was beautiful. No wonder she was so often coaxed to wear it. She knew the people of Sirion thought the safety and prosperity they enjoyed was somehow related to the Silmaril, perhaps because once, as the Noldor said, it had been hallowed by Elbereth herself.

Elwing was certain it was a Noldo who had spread that idea. She did not (_could_ not) share it, and did not understand how the rest of the Sindar could. All the Silmarils had ever brought was bloodshed. Dior, Nimloth, Eluréd, Elurín, and others she could not list and could not bear to count had _died_.

She wrapped it up again and placed it in the trunk at the foot of her bed. Sometimes she wondered why she didn't just fling it into the Sea, where no one could ever reach it. But something always held her back. The knowledge of Beren and Lúthien's sacrifices, or her own father's dying wish to keep it safe, perhaps. Or something else, some feeling (foresight?) that whatever she did, this Silmaril was not destined for the depths of the Sea – or for the hands of the Kinslayers. So she just kept it hidden away and tried to forget.

But perhaps that was part of the Silmaril's curse. It didn't let her forget.


End file.
